


Run to You

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443





	Run to You

He’s been worrying you, Percival Graves. For a man who’s survived captivity and torture, he’s been terribly quiet. There’s a hauntedness in his eyes that won’t go away, no matter how many warm embraces and light kisses and tender whispers of _you’re safe_. There’s no talk of the ordeal he’s gone through in your home, no explanation for when he wakes up in the night, screaming like a man possessed, and you say nothing when he sometimes grips you too hard, surprised when you try comfort him, because softness and warmth and comfort are things he doesn’t remember anymore. Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror and catches your eye, you think you’re both staring at strangers, and even though he tells you he loves you and kisses you on your cheek dutifully every morning, you and he know that he’s just going through the motions, trying to hold onto familiar gestures and routines and comforting familiarity because you think he’s teetering at the edge of the cliff and only the weak grasp of your hold on him is holding him back. But you wonder how long it’ll be before he jumps.

There are therapy sessions, ones which he goes to alone and others where you sit in with him while someone is paid to fix him. Only, you don’t think he needs fixing. He’s broken, your Percival, but you think Grindelwald’s broken him beyond fixing, and you think the only way things will ever be whole again is if you help him find his new form instead of forcing the jagged pieces back together. Because they’ll never fit the way they used to, not anymore. You know this, and so does he, but the lady with the horned rimmed glasses who looks at him with pity, and his subordinates and colleagues who stare at him with a mixture of fear, suspicion and blistering _pity_ don’t. You stop the sessions a month after they start, when his circles grow darker and he mumbles about being broken and needing to be fixed. You scream at the President when she tries to force Percival back into therapy, and you’re a slight thing, not trained in the manner of combative magic but the whole of MACUSA know not to cross you when it comes to your love. His thanks come in the form of a soft kiss and a soft glance towards you when you both go to bed that night, and you go to sleep holding hands and wake up with smiles.

You’ve not been intimate since he comes back, and you don’t mind, because you’d rather wait than feel him flinch whenever you run your fingers along his back, and you think there’s something in the way his nostrils flare in panic and he moans and scrambles away from, un-Percival like, that makes you wonder if breaking his bones is the only manner of torture Grindelwald inflicts on him. On nights like these, you soothe him like you would an animal, holding him and rocking him back and forth while he whimpers to your crooning. So you’re surprised when one day, he tentatively reaches a hand under your shirt and over your back, quickly, before the hand is withdrawn. When he sees the absence of anger on your face, he touches you again with wonder, and again, and again, and his kisses that night are bolder and you can taste his soul in his kiss once more.

You make him take days off from work, when he thinks the stares are longer and more blatant, when he thinks the whispers are louder and condemning and he tells you he sometimes wishes he could fly because when you fly, he says, nothing can catch hold of you. There’s a smile on both your faces, when clad only in your dressing robes, you grab his hand and spin him wildly around the room, and his hair comes loose and his laugh is loud and joyous and it’s the purest, most innocent sound in the world and you laugh along with him, because Percival’s slowly finding himself again and you can feel his pieces losing their jagged edges and becoming rounder now, smoother, less hurting.

There are good days and bad days in the road to becoming whole again. On the good days, his smile is a little brighter, and his people murmur they can finally recognise the man whom they call their Director, and he looks at the world with wonder and amazement because everything is _good_ and _safe_ and nothing can hurt him anymore. The bad days come when they’re least unexpected, and you see the fears and insecurities and doubts come creeping in when he falters mid conversation and the light in his eyes dims as he retreats behind the curtains of his own mind. He doesn’t speak much when this happens, and you tug on his hand gently on the way home before taking warm blankets and wrapping the both of you in them. You like to read to him then, and in his quiet, tentative voice, he always asks you to read from the book of Tennyson poems. You always reply with how he does a better job of reciting the poems, and sometimes you manage to tease a smile out of him. But it’s ok if you don’t, because you know it takes time for him to feel ok to smile, and you know he doesn’t want to disappoint you or anyone else because he isn’t making the progress everyone wants him to make. So you just pull him closer and run a hand through his hair as you make your way through the well-loved pages. His breathing slows, and so does yours, and your soft voice is the only thing you both hear in the silent room, and he thinks he’s never felt more at home than in your arms, even when he’s broken.

When the third anniversary of your relationship rolls by, he tries to surprise you with dinner. You’re surprised when you come home and see his shoes neatly placed on the shoe rack, and you don’t quite know if you should laugh or cry in alarm when you see him stumbling out of a smoke-filled kitchen, coughing and sputtering with sooth all over him. He’s holding a plate of your favourite dish and you squeal with joy and smother him in kisses and thank yous even though the food is a little burnt. You insist on eating that for dinner, although you both agree to get takeout as well because a single dish isn’t much of a dinner. His blush reaches the tips of his ears when you eat every last piece of burnt food and moan at how it’s the most exquisite of food in the world, and he jokes about how you smell of charcoal when you press your lips to him, and you’re both delighted because the conversation flows more smoothly and easily, and his laughter isn’t as stilted and hesitant, and his smiles are wider and free whenever he manages to delight you. He doesn’t necessarily say it, but you know when he squeezes your hand at night and presses a kiss to your hair, that he’s thankful you’re there with him every step of the way, and always will be.

You wake up one day to feel the scrape of his stubble on your neck, and he’s pressing against your back and he turns you to him before pressing a kiss to your lips. You breathe softly as you fall into his love, his tongue swiping lightly across your mouth and teeth nipping playfully at your lips. He rids the both of you of your underclothes, and it’s broad daylight when he draws exquisite moans out of you, and if you’re both louder than usual and the neighbours complain, you think _fuck it_ because as you pant heavily, basking in the afterglow of love-making wrapped around and all over him, your Percival is whole again and that was the best damn orgasm you’ve ever had. He’s nipping at your ear again in no time, and it’s hours before the two of you ever leave the bed, and when you’re having a late lunch in the dining room, he rolls his eyes and incinerates a note from the President asking him to come into work. They’ll survive without him for a day, he tells you with a smirk, after all, they’ve done it while he was imprisoned and no one noticed a thing anyway. You hide a laugh behind your hands, and he pulls you onto his lap as he feeds you and you feed him and you’re curled contentedly against his bare chest sprinkled with scars. He tells you that he’s planning a month long vacation away from work, and shyly, boyishly, tells you he thinks it’s time for marriage, you throw your head back in joyful laughter and as he stares at you in wonder, he thinks you’re the most beautiful creature in the world, and he thinks if your children will have your eyes, he’ll not complain.


End file.
